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<title>𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨 🁡 𝑀𝑜𝑏𝑦 𝐷𝑖𝑐𝑘 by Adrenalineshots, sonshineandshowers, TheFibreWitch</title>
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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26504941">𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨 🁡 𝑀𝑜𝑏𝑦 𝐷𝑖𝑐𝑘</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/pseuds/Adrenalineshots'>Adrenalineshots</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers'>sonshineandshowers</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFibreWitch/pseuds/TheFibreWitch'>TheFibreWitch</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Domino 🁡 [36]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Prodigal Son (TV 2019)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Case Fic, Digital Art, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hallucinations, Harassment, Health Emergency, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Mental Health Issues, Metafiction, Murder Mystery, Nightmares, Surrealism, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator, Video, a lot of really strange stuff that happens in altered states of consciousness, anxiousness, reader-driven</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 13:20:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,517</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26504941</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/pseuds/Adrenalineshots, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFibreWitch/pseuds/TheFibreWitch</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Selecting 𝑀𝑜𝑏𝑦 𝐷𝑖𝑐𝑘 from the bookshelf, Malcolm travels through his own mind.</p><p>Read this story at: <a href="https://www.thedominostory.com/#moby-dick">https://www.thedominostory.com/#moby-dick</a></p><p>This book is one part of the Domino series. If you have not yet read the <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64577434#workskin">Preface</a> or <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64588537#workskin">Introduction</a>, please head there first.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Domino 🁡 [36]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1926451</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Domino 🁡, Prodigal Son Big Bang 2020 - Saturday Posts</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>𝐃𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐨 🁡 𝑀𝑜𝑏𝑦 𝐷𝑖𝑐𝑘</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/gifts">Jameena</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/gifts">MissScorp</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/gifts">ProcrastinatingSab</a>.</li>


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/685384">Moby Dick</a> by Herman Melville.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This book is one part of the Domino series. If you have not yet read the <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64577434#workskin">Preface</a> or <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64588537#workskin">Introduction</a>, please head there first.</p><p>Betaed by the wonderful <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jameena/">Jameena</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissScorp/">MissScorp</a>, and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/">ProcrastinatingSab</a>.</p><p>Credit to the creators and their works that inspired and were referenced in this work:<br/><b>— Inspiration: </b><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moby-Dick">Moby Dick</a> - Herman Melville<br/><b>— Cover Song: </b><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A9QTSyLwd4w">Jaws Theme Song</a> - Jaws</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
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</table><p>Malcolm stared at the whiteboard, wishing things would start to make sense on their own. Instead, all that stared back at him were photos of mangled bodies and body parts, reports that added very little information, and a map of the city that had far too scarce location pins on it.</p><p>He shifted in his seat, no position gentle enough to ease the ache in his bruised ribs.</p><p>It had been foolish of him to chase down a serial killer on his own without calling for backup, but Malcolm knew that, presented with the same circumstances again, he would make the exact same choice.</p><p>It was something that he couldn't control. If he saw a chance to catch a killer, to sink his harpoon into his prey, Malcolm would chase that white whale every single time, even if it killed him.</p><p>“Heard you were in a bit of a tight spot today,” Dani offered as a greeting. The steaming cup of tea that pushed towards him was a welcoming surprise.</p><p>Malcolm squinted his eyes at her. “Har-har,” he faked his laughter, quickly sobering up. Even fake laughter seemed of crude taste at this point. A man had died, after all.</p><p>Truth was, the Junkyard Killer could have killed him in those tunnels and easily gotten away with it. The only reason he had refrained from doing that was because he needed the profiler to aid him in his diversion to kill his actual target. Ryan Davis had died because Malcolm had failed to see the obvious, because he had been too focused on his own questions and search for the truth to understand what was right in front of his face.</p><p>His obsession for finding answers had claimed more than the integrity of his ribs that day.</p><p>“You should head home,” she advised, watching closely as he took a sip of his tea. “Get some sleep.”</p><p>Malcolm smiled, this time with more gusto. “You are truly hilarious tonight, Powell.”</p><p>Sleep.</p><p>As if. After a day where all he could accomplish was failure after failure, failing to sleep would seem like an underwhelming ending. It would require something a lot stronger than tea to put him out that night.</p><p>And yet...</p><p>Malcolm could feel his eyes getting heavier and heavier, the world around him losing color at the edges, blurring into a frozen picture of black and red.</p><p>He looked at Dani's face, searching for a reaction, but there was none to find there. Her face suddenly vanished, replaced with a beard covered jaw and cold eyes as Paul Lazar sat there, looking at him. His expression was serene, unsurprised by the profiler's slow descent into unconsciousness, like it was something he was expecting to happen sooner or later. In the end, the Junkyard Killer gave him a crooked smile that confirmed Malcolm's suspicions. He had laced the tea with something...</p><p>Malcolm fumbled with gravity, falling down into an endless pit. He tried to take a breath but discovered that air had turned into water and his lungs were ill equipped for the task.</p><p>He gagged, closing his mouth at the last second before he was forced to drink any more water. It was salty and tangy, like sea water.</p><p>Looking up, he could see a red flaring light, its color muted by the wall of water sitting between him and the surface. He kicked up, not bothering to question where the precinct or Dani had gone to. Right now, what he needed was up there. </p><p>Air.</p><p>Malcolm hit the surface like a torpedo, spluttering and spitting water while he tried to fill his lungs with oxygen.</p><p>It took him a few seconds to register his surroundings.</p><p>There were large pieces of burning wood floating around him, like fiery water-lilies, gently kissing the wet surface of the sea.</p><p>Above him, the sky was dotted with more stars than Malcolm ever remembered seeing at night in New York. Bright and shimmering, like they had been set on fire as well.</p><p>He had no idea where he was or what the hell was going on, but there was one thing he knew he could do. “Help! HELP! Can anyone hear me?”</p><p>With his head barely above the water in a black sea that refused to stand still, Malcolm knew that his chances of keeping himself afloat and surviving were as dim and dark as his surroundings.</p><p>Between the sound of the constant swirl of flapping waves, like birds underwater, and crackling wood of the floating fires, Malcolm didn't hear either the working oars or the approaching boat until it was almost on top of him.</p><p>It looked so much like the wooden lifeboats on the Titanic that Malcolm had to resist the urge to look around for the large sinking ship. It hit him then what the floating fires were: the remains of a larger ship, recently sunk.</p><p>There were carved letters on the side of the lifeboat. Pequod.</p><p>“Climb aboard, sailor! 'Tis no time to be in the drink!”</p><p>Malcolm's limbs felt like lead as he tried to pull himself up on the boat. Several pairs of hands groped at his wet clothes, helping him beat the pull of the water and reach the safety of the boat.</p><p>“Thank you,” he voiced with a shudder, melting into the feeling of solid wood under his back. One more minute inside the water and Malcolm was sure he would have dissolved into muddy flesh and bones. “What the hell happened here?”</p><p>There were five men beside him inside that boat. One of them, dressed in finer clothes, had a prosthetic leg made of wood. “That devil sent my ship to the depths, that's what happened here!” he hissed, looking at the dark sea, like he was searching for something. His hands, resting by his side, had turned into fists, eager to punch something. Or someone.</p><p>Malcolm followed his gaze, even though he knew it was impossible to see more than three feet in any direction.</p><p>Sailors dressed pretty much the same anywhere in the world, but there had been some changes in their attire over the course of time. Now that he looked more closely, Malcolm started to wonder in which century these men had left the shore. “The devil?”</p><p>“Aye! Aye! That accursed white whale that razed me, Paul Lazar!”</p><p>Malcolm blinked. What?</p><p>“You sure that's the name of the whale?” he found himself asking. Suddenly, he felt as uncomfortable inside that boat as he did inside the cold water.</p><p>The man gave him a hard look, appraising him and somehow finding him lacking. “Yer not one of me crew,” he concluded, immediately raising the hackles of every man inside the tiny boat. “How did you come to be in my ship's wreck?”</p><p>It was a good question, even though the man had made it sound like Malcolm had crashed his party rather than his personal tragedy. A good question for which the profiler had no answer. “I think I fell asleep,” he voiced, not quite sure of the veracity of his words.</p><p>A thunderous noise filled the air, making all the men inside the boat shudder in fear and the boat itself flop in the air as a wave bigger than the rest hit them. A few of them crossed themselves, hoping that some powerful higher being would protect them from whatever was behind the terrifying sound.</p><p>Malcolm squinted into the dark. Under the pale light of the stars, he caught the phantom sight of a huge tail fin, lifting in the air. It was easily as wide as an Antonov's wingspan and as tall as a five story building.</p><p>As it slowly descended towards the sea surface, Malcolm braced himself for impact as one would from an exploding grenade. The sound was terribly similar.</p><p>This time, the shockwave was larger than before, threatening to tip their boat over. The men screamed, clinging to the sides of their wooden refuge as if that would stop it from succumbing to the turbulent sea.</p><p>Miraculously, the wave came and went and the boat remained upright, all of its passengers still inside, albeit slightly greener around the gills.</p><p>The profiler gulped down the bile trying to escape his mouth. For someone who got nauseous riding the ferry to Staten Island, this was not helping his sensitive stomach. It was somewhat rewarding to see the experienced sailors faring about as well as he felt.</p><p>Malcolm's gaze shifted from the disappearing tail to the man with the wooden leg. There was a scary, crazed look in his eyes as he fervently searched the black waters, his fingers contorting around the handle of an imaginary harpoon. “Your name doesn't happen to be Ahab by any chance?” Malcolm asked with a scowl.</p><p>The man frowned, exchanging the sea for the profiler's face. “What gave ya that strange idea, lad?” the man voiced. “Name is M. Dick, like me dad,” he offered proudly. “Now you, lad...you have the look of an Ahab about you! Yer sure that's not you?”</p><p>It was the oddest thing to say. Coming from a man dressed as a 19th century sailor, inside a wooden boat, being preyed upon by a giant, white whale, Malcolm felt like it wasn't the strangest thing that could happen. “No, my name is Malcolm. Malcolm Bright,” he felt the need to point out. “And that whale is not for me,” he added, looking at the titanic tail, raising high enough to cover the sky above them. There was no way that fragile, tiny boat was going to survive this.</p><p>“Yer sure about that, lad?” the man asked, ignoring their impending doom. “Because it seems to me that Paul Lazar is coming for yer!”</p><p>— ◌◯◌ —</p>
<p></p><div class="note">
  <p>
    <a id="note" name="note"></a>
  </p>
  <p>It’s one line buried among many others in an email from Veronica to her boss — <em>more from the troll</em>. Small enough to potentially get lost in the flow of prospects, dismissed as white noise, a tangent, but Dani plucks it out instantly when she sees it. Searching Veronica’s work emails for ‘troll’ finds a few other hits.</p>
  <p>“Who’s the troll?” JT asks, sitting across from Joshua in interrogation with a printout of the email between them. The executive editor had finally made it in with his corporate lawyer. Dani sits beside JT, quietly interpreting the unspoken conversation as he takes the lead. There’s a plethora of information in what Joshua doesn’t say, even his practiced facade not covering his arms crossing and slightly leaning back in his chair.</p>
  <p>“Veronica had received some emails.” The man shrugs. “Lines of prose, poems — annoyance Valentine-level stuff that goes straight to the trash.”</p>
  <p>“What did you do about it?”</p>
  <p>“Reported it.”</p>
  <p>“To who? The police, HR — “</p>
  <p>Joshua chuckles, an awkward addition that leaves Dani scowling given the severity of the situation. “For junk mail? To her personal inbox?” he asks in disbelief. “My boss.”</p>
  <p>The man who had insisted to local police that Veronica’s death wasn’t natural causes. The man who <em>knew</em> there was a problem and only felt guilty after the fact, if it can even be called guilt versus covering their asses. Where is the evidence of any action?</p>
  <p>“Someone on your staff reported she was being harassed, and you did nothing?” Dani patters her words into him, glaring. “Of course you didn’t,” she answers for him.</p>
  <p>“That wasn’t harassment,” Joshua raises his voice a little, slipping out of his corporate guise. “And that’s certainly not a report,” he scoffs at the email. “Veronica thought it was a nuisance. Joked that they could at least write her better content. That’s it.”</p>
  <p>“You don’t get to speak for — “ Dani starts to argue.</p>
  <p>“A person is <em>dead</em>,” JT growls, standing and leaning over the table. “An NYPD consultant is hospitalized. What part of this seems like something to laugh off?”</p>
  <p>Joshua stops talking entirely, effectively ending their line of questioning. JT and Dani are left regrouping on the way back to their desks, silent outrage fuming from their bodies like a mirage from the pavement on a hot summer’s day. One word of behavior like that towards them in any capacity, and Gil would be all over it, taking it seriously even if they tried to dismiss it. It’s a night and day difference that’s nauseating in its inequity.</p>
  <p>Wading through Veronica’s personal emails goes a bit differently than her work emails. Most of her personal inbox is spam, rarely any emails going outbound from the account. Though Dani stays in touch with Tech as they work through the content, she doesn’t have high hopes for anything promising. The victim’s spam is just like anyone else’s — abundant and useless.</p>
  <p>She gets an email back with Tech’s analysis. It’s only a few lines, but that’s a few more lines than she expected. "There are a number of email addresses blocked in her personal email," she shares over the wall of their cubes. None of them are recognizable — all pseudonyms of some sort.</p>
  <p>"Like spam?" JT asks.</p>
  <p>"Or people you don't want to be able to talk to you." A quick hit of block, and the person’s frozen out like they don’t exist, a one-way communication into a black hole.</p>
  <p>"Veronica have a lot of those?"</p>
  <p>"More than I do."</p>
  <p>"Do you even use personal email?" JT asks skeptically.</p>
  <p>"No, not really."</p>
  <p>"Probably not a good example then." JT smiles. "But I don't have anyone blocked. Neither does Tally."</p>
  <p>"We don't work in recruiting. We work with people on the worst days of their lives, but we don't typically work with large groups of people at once." Exchanging emails with a victim’s family doesn’t happen very often for a case but reaching out to businesses and other places of interest does. Even then, it’s one point of contact or hopping through a chain to find the point of contact.</p>
  <p>"She wouldn't give out her personal email while recruiting, though."</p>
  <p>"Some people are persistent."</p>
  <p>"How do you mean?"</p>
  <p>"Reverse looking up people's email addresses. That’s how tech found this for us. Easily repeatable by a person in the general public. Creepy as fuck." A phantom shiver runs up her spine.</p>
  <p>"Another ex?"</p>
  <p>"Something like that. The reason I don't use most social media anymore." Makes it too easy for someone else to find out she is Detective Dani Powell, where her apartment is in the Bronx, and what she prefers before even introducing herself. Trust is hard enough without adding that extra element to the mix.</p>
  <p>"I hear you." JT crinkles his brow. "Do you think they're worth going through?"</p>
  <p>"Yes. Best way to look for the troll. We still don't have a solid link to someone who might have a motive. Worth a shot."</p>
  <p>"Let's do it."</p>
  <p>Her phone buzzes in her pocket, and she fishes it out quickly, hoping for an update on Bright. A silly picture from Sria looks back at her, a crude middle finger brushed in primer she’s re-covering the canvas with. <em>Another one bites the dust</em>, it’s captioned. She smirks at her friend’s attempt at humor and sends the same emoji back to her.</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading. Head back to the <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497927/chapters/64588570#workskin">Bookshelf</a> to pick another book. :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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